


See You When You Get Here

by Astarloa



Category: Death Note
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Original Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-02
Updated: 2012-04-02
Packaged: 2017-11-02 22:30:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astarloa/pseuds/Astarloa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>L tested the Death Note, how could he not? Now he's caught between heaven and hell, searching for the other half of himself. Folloh is the Shinigami responsible for overseeing ghosts trapped in the human world, who can’t help wishing for something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: 'Death Note' and its characters belong to Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata.

It's a truth that we’re all of us bored.

Mostly.

The grasp of our attention flexes uncomfortably on the rungs of a ladder, arthritic fingers coated with flakes of rust and peeling paint, struggling to hold on even as we dream of letting go. Some of us fall, and some of us cling just that little bit longer. In the never-day-of-night I wonder if the threat of disconnection speaks the name of our freedom or fate.

Perhaps it’s both.

A world of dry bones and lifeless dust struck through with veins of silicon, waiting to be touched by the nightmare of lightening. 

“How ya goin’ Folloh?”

The question returns me to myself. 

Welcome home.

“Fine.” I settle down on a nearby rock and although I don’t really care, ask anyway. It’s polite. “And you, Gukku?”

His response is lost amongst the low, taunting strands of thunder that echo weakly from the horizon. Long after its argument with rainless clouds has faded the click-clack of bones won and lost carries on. It’s our way, what we are. Years discarded on a whim and new ones bought with human names. Apathy is the broken toy we’ve been gifted to play with. 

Deridovely is winning today, as usual. 

He sucks wetly on the end of a dirt-encrusted bandage that’s slipped loose from one arm, trying to disguise the smug twitch of a mouth too small for the teeth trapped inside. It’s the only part of his face left uncovered by the mask he refuses to remove. I’m not sure that he can any more.

“…yeah, and look where it got her. Nothing but a pile of sand now. If Ryuk’s not careful he’ll be next. Hey, you cheated!” 

Gukku’s false outrage hits the mark right on time. He’s a poor gambler and worse loser who knows his role, so very well. As he should. 

It’s nearly my turn.

“Folloh, you saw that, right?!” Empty eye sockets swivel towards me, seeking approval. “Deridovely cheated! Two pair, I had a two pair of skulls!”

“Liar,” grunts Deridovely.

“I say we let Folloh decide,” says Gukku. “So, what d’ya reckon, Folloh? Was it a perfect match or what?” 

There’s a beat of silence before their laughter erupts, glass breaking apart in a tin can rolling down the staircase. It never reaches the bottom. Never, not ever. Let your eyelids stutter, just for a second, and you’ll find it balanced on the very first step once again, about to descend. 

Gukku calls after me. “Where ya goin’? Eh, don’t be like that, can’t ya take a joke? Folloh! Hey, come back and play for a while! Folloh!”

I keep walking.

There’s nothing to be said. 

We are the Shinigami and we’re dying from boredom.

****

:::: :::: ::::

Death Note, Rule II: The human who uses this note can neither go to heaven nor hell.

Extract from Folloh’s secret notebook: It is possible for humans to see ghosts. Whether they do depends not on belief but the number of hauntings they already carry.

They meet in a shabby hotel room every Tuesday afternoon at half past four. 

A man and a woman.

They’re nothing special, there are thousands of rooms filled with people just like them. Available bodies whose meaning is measured in the price of an hour, crumpled stockings and shirts draped over worn, empty chairs; the possibility of something more cancelled out by the the insidious scent of air-freshener and sex.

The man’s name is Yamada.

He’s stuck on the treadmill of middle-management in Tokyo’s Metropolitan Bureau of Urban Development and never likely to step off. The lines of disappointment on his wife’s face have grown deeper with each passing year, unspoken accusations filling the silence between them. 

They have no children. 

He’s forty-nine years old and walks home from the train station every day, dread crawling inside him as each faltering step brings him closer. Last week, despite the rain, he sat on the doorstep for hours rather than going inside. He couldn’t face it.

_“I don’t love her. I’ve never loved her. Some nights, when I’m lying in bed and my wife’s asleep by my side, I listen to her breathe. In and out, in and out, in and out. All I want is to put a pillow over her face and press down until it stops. My hands shake with the need. I once dreamt that I killed her. When I woke up I locked myself in the bathroom and cried. I hate my wife and know that I’ll never leave her. I can’t leave her.”_

The woman’s name is Mutsuko. 

She’s an overweight college student looking to earn a bit of extra money, playing at independence whilst cultivating the need to be looked at with desire. What she lacks in experience is made up for in simulated affection directed at the man who’s grunting against her. 

She’s studying English, still lives with her parents. 

When nobody’s home she practices seduction in front of the mirror, purses her lips and gives high, breathy moans punctuated by sighs of the type she’s watched her favourite movie stars give. 

Her sister moved to the United States last year, seized a new life and left her behind. 

Now she has no one to talk to.

_“There are days when the whole world is quiet. I try to speak, can feel words beating against the walls of my throat, but no one hears me. All I can do is watch as a parade of blank smiles marches past._

_I’m twenty years old and frightened that I’ll never be wanted._

_Everyone I know has a girlfriend or boyfriend, a husband or wife. Someone who hears them. When the fear becomes too much I open the refrigerator door and eat as cold air washes over my face. It helps until the next time. I wonder if that’s what people mean when they talk about falling in love.”_

The man and the woman will meet in the same hotel room again next week, and the week after that.

It’s a flimsy barricade against his hatred, her fear.

They won’t notice the figure crouched on a chair in the corner, black eyes fixed on the window in silent surveillance. 

The reflections caught there are broken and blurred, nakedness covered by smears of dirt and the white residue of cleaning fluid left behind by uncaring hands. Brown paper and sticky-tape. It’s not quite the same as sixty-four high definition cameras – there’s no fast forward or rewind, no zoom and no freeze frame - but it’s not all that different, either. 

They won’t see bare feet rubbing together in a compulsive, self-comforting gesture both simple and strange. Again and again, forever again. A ragged thumbnail swiped over chewed lips that murmur of time and unknown equations. If the man and the woman could see, once they’d stopped screaming, perhaps they’d understand why that unblinking gaze has never once left the glass.

_“It’s clear that the Death Note has a selective effect on the memories of those who use it._

_I still know the days of the week and the months of the year. What it means when the hands of the clock point to twelve, minutes and seconds colliding. Cold rain will hit this window in November and data connections are three times faster than a train at full speed._

_So is my mind._

_One third of six still makes two, one half of it three and two thirds are four. I think that I died, and it was Kira who killed me, but I can’t remember his face or his name. His? Hhhhmm, yes. Now, apparently, I’m sitting in this chair watching strangers have sex._

_There’s a ten percent chance that I’m a ghost. No, I think it’s closer to five. The bells are quiet today and my chest aches._

_I wish that Watari were here.”_

The man stops on his way out to complain about the room’s lack of heating. 

It’s foolish and indiscreet. 

He tells himself that he doesn’t care.

“It’s always cold in there, always cold. If it’s not fixed I’ll have to make a formal complaint.”

The onduty manager nods his understanding in short, jagged motions and says that he’ll send someone to check on it. Each know that the other is lying.


	2. Chapter 2

Gukku’s cries fade away as I enter a stone field littered with the bored. 

I hum softly, contributing to a soundtrack of snoring punctuated by raucous laughter and rattling bones. Few greet me as I pass between them. What purpose would it serve when the opportunity will present itself again and the time after that? We’ve been more successful in bringing death than any supposed and are its most beautiful victims, mistaking pain for pleasure and smiling even as we bleed.

Soon I’m alone.

Spheres watch me with gaping eyes from the horizon and I continue towards them through the sand. Metal struts and concentric circles become visible as I draw closer, smooth surfaces replaced by cracks.

I pause before one and run a finger over the black notebook that lies silent in my pocket, ignoring the angry moan of its brother. For yes, I have a second that’s unique in its way. There’s no title inscribed on the grey cover or names to be found within its pages. Only rules about nothing, the world of ghosts.

Few Shinigami care what happens to humans who die after using the Death Note. Glib statements of heaven and hell roll from idle tongues even as names are recorded. My punishment is to watch and know. The absence that awaits them isn’t the peace of non-existence but one of growing confusion and loss, disintegrating memories of what they want most. 

Sometimes it’s about love and sometimes about hate.

It doesn’t matter.

Numbers are gifted liars that would have you believe two minus one leaves something behind when it doesn’t. Or at least nothing you’d recognise. 

The others mock Sidoh for his fear of ghosts but he’s right to be afraid.

:::: :::: ::::

**Death Note, Rule V:** A god of death cannot be killed even if stabbed in the heart with a knife or shot in the head with a gun. However, there are ways to kill a god of death, which are not generally known to the gods of death.

**Extract from Folloh’s secret notebook:** A god of death can be killed by a ghost where physical contact between the god of death and ghost is maintained for forty seconds. If contact is broken before that time the god of death will not be affected, although the ghost’s memories of its human life may be strengthened for a period of time.

He’d decided that a walk was in order.

After several days spent on the hotel chair he’d concluded that his memories were largely intact except for Kira’s face and name. The situation was hardly ideal yet he drew a strange sense of comfort from its familiarity. Gaps in his recollection of the investigation itself could be explained if he’d unknowingly interacted with Kira during that time. Not impossible, if somewhat unlikely.

Contrary to popular opinion serial murderers were usually more intent on escaping detection than working with the police.

Only sixty-three percent certain, however, he’d decided to double-check his hypothesis before taking action. 

It was a mistake.

With each passing day his memories blurred just a little bit more. Confused smears of ink and stricken numbers slid down the window while eyes drifted and accused from the glass. 

_Try harder, save yourself from being lost._

Pieces of Kira are slipping away no matter how tightly he holds them in place. And as his memories fade so too are the colours, the world slipping into shades of black and white.

There’s no discernable pattern.

Some things remain sharp enough to cut, make him bleed, while others appear to have vanished. He’s not sure. How do you recall the thoughts you’ve forgotten? His fingers couldn’t pick up a pen when he tried to write on the cheap stationery stacked next to the bed. He’d been forced to set deductive traps for himself; a labyrinth with false corridors and collapsing floors designed to catch nothing. When it does he can still only guess at what used to be there. 

Tonight he’d startled awake, unaware of having fallen asleep. He doesn’t think sleep is what happened. 

It’s three hours since he left the hotel and so far the fresh air isn’t helping. 

“Oh, this is good. Couldn’t resist using the notebook after all, eh Ryuzaki?” 

He spins around, scanning the empty street as his heart stumbles and finds an imitation rhythm to thud. In the shadows outside a convenience store stands a nightmare puppet absent of strings. It’s eating an apple, painted lips stretched wide as they bite through dark skin and white flesh.

Shinigami.

This time there’s no need to scream. No one’s watching.

He stares with blank eyes, expression cancelled, then shuffles quickly forward until they’re only a few feet apart. Dull headlights from a passing car wash over them and his monochrome world explodes into colour. A carnival of yellow eyes smeared with red, blue lips, a pink tongue. White skin and black clothes more vivid and real than the brittle newspaper clippings he’s grown resigned to.

The Shinigami’s colours linger even after the light disappears, muted but not gone. There’s a plastic shopping bag filled with red apples lying on the pavement. Red, scarlet, vermillion. He savours words he thought he’d no longer have need for, tongue pressed against his teeth to prevent their escape. 

_Save yourself from being lost._

At this distance he realises that the Shinigami is undoubtedly male. He searches for a resemblance to Rem and finds little beyond the superficial – both are tall with elongated, spindly limbs. It suggests that Shinigami each manifest a unique appearance, although of course gender is a variable he has no means of testing and study of a far greater sample would be required in order to reach any definitive conclusion.

Still, interesting.

“Got any leads on Kira lately? Harder now that your memories aren’t what they were, isn’t it?” asks the Shinigami grinning, a world of funhouse mirrors trapped inside his bulging eyes. “Guess you’re in the dark, so to speak.”

And with that his body convulses in a shriek of mirth, head thrown back and shoulders jerking as if desperate to escape the pain of fractured limbs. In the pantomime of cruelty and pleasure L sees Kira reflected. Maybe himself, too.

“We’ve not been formally introduced. Judging from your comments, however, you’re quite familiar with me,” he says flatly. 

“Yeah, you could say that, Ryuzaki. Or do you prefer L? I’ve spent a lot of time watching you.”

While there are several people the Shinigami could have attached himself to, there’s only one likely to be familiar with both of those names. His reference to Kira makes it almost certain.

“You’re the first Kira’s Shinigami.”

“Nah, he’s just the guy who happened to pick up my notebook.”

“And your name?”

“Eh, what’s that?” The Shinigami leans over and plucks another apple from the bag. He tosses it idly from hand to hand before biting down hard. Pieces of skin are snagged on his teeth. “Mmmmm. Juicy.”

“I dislike repeating myself so please pay attention. Since you have the pleasure of knowing my name, I want to know yours,” he says, cold and haughty.

“Oh, you’re demanding, aren’t you? Sure, I’ll tell you my name. Why not? There’s nothing you can do with it. I am the Shinigami Ryuk.”

Ryuk.

The Shinigami with access to all of Kira’s secrets. He hunches his shoulders and locks the thrum of excitement away under his usual flat tone. 

“The rules contained in the Death Note provide that only a person who owns or touches it can see the god of death to whom it belongs. For obvious reasons I don’t fall into either category and yet, here we are.”

“That rule only applies humans. We Shinigami can reveal ourselves to ghosts whenever we want, although we don’t usually bother. You’re not very interesting.”

“Despite my limited entertainment value, however, the fact remains that you’ve chosen to do so now. If I’d known, I would have brought a cake.” He pauses and chews on a finger. “The last Shinigami I spoke with was reluctant to answer my questions. Why aren’t you?”

“Well for starters, you weren’t dead then. Besides, I haven’t got much to do at night. Shinigami don’t sleep you know and watching Kira becomes kind of boring after a while. Even,” says Ryuk with a cackle, “when he’s otherwise engaged.” 

He fires the next question quickly, determined to force a mistake. “Did Kira send you?”

“Kira again? You’re really obsessed. Na, he doesn’t know about ghosts and wouldn’t like it at all if he knew we were talking. I’d run out of apples. Since he refused to buy me any more until tomorrow I decided to find some myself. Took a while, I can tell you.”

“So your explanation for our meeting is coincidence arising from the sudden and overwhelming need for out-of-season fruit?” he asks, disbelief clear. 

“You ghosts are as arrogant as humans, always thinking everything’s about you. Believe what you like. I’m just here for the apples. Do you know, L,” the face suddenly looms over his, leer fixed firmly in place, “that gods of death love apples?”

_”L, do you know? Gods of death love apples.”_

_”It’s almost as if he’s mocking you.”_

_”L, do you know? Love apples gods of death?”_

_”If you rearrange it like this, it gives you…”_

The bells in his head are ringing louder and louder, drowning out the sound of someone screaming. He wishes they’d stop. Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop. Pieces are shattering apart on the ground, fragments shining and he doesn’t know how to put them together. Make it stop. One arm is wrapped around his head, the other reaching out blindly to stop the descent.

His fingers collide with a cold, thin wrist and tighten around it.

Then everything stops.

He opens eyes that were squeezed tightly shut. Ryuk’s frozen before him, mouth stretched and distorted as if photographed in a horrible dream. The only movement comes from flickering numbers that tumble around him, blinking in and out existence. His right hand burns and he glances down to find it still clenched around Ryuk. Colour is slowly creeping over his fingers where they touch, along his arm.

Thirty-eight seconds.

The panic ripping through him just moments ago has been replaced by emptiness. Nothing. He feels nothing at all. 

It lasts for thirty-eight seconds.

Then the street slips back into focus. He can hear passing traffic and the drip of water striking metal. Apples lie in abandoned disarray on the ground and the Shinigami is nowhere to be seen. 

“Eh, you’re kind of dangerous, aren’t you? I didn’t know ghosts could do that. Maybe you aren’t as boring as I thought.”

He looks up to find Ryuk perched like a disgruntled crow on a shopfront awning. His wings are fully extended and ruffled, flapping with involuntary spasms. A half-eaten apple is still held in one hand.

_I don’t know what happened, what I’m supposed to have done. Does that make it better or worse?_

Lingering numbness is replaced by something close to shock as he hears the flat, disinterested tone of his own voice. 

“Does he miss me?” 

It’s pointless and not the question he meant to ask. Stupid, so stupid. The answer’s irrelevant. There’s no advantage to be gained in knowing, no logic underpinning its foundation. If he’s to succeed in finding Kira then he can’t…he just can’t. 

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. 

But the question mark’s hook has latched onto his mind, is dragging him under. He wants to know.

Fine tremors creep through his neck and fingers, leave them vibrating against worn denim. How can fabric still feel the same when everything else has changed? He curls his hands into fists and, when that doesn’t work, shoves them into his pockets, slouches further. Rubs his toe over a crack in the pavement and pretends that air he no longer needs isn’t trapped in his chest.

It’s okay. 

He can still make this work. 

The percentages shiver to life inside him and he grabs at their certainty.

_From what I remember of Kira’s actions he leaves nothing to chance and will put into effect those strategies which best ensure his own survival. If he’s responsible for my death, and there’s no evidence to indicate otherwise, then I must have been close to finding him. Very close. That being the case he will have studied me as I studied him. If I’m correct, and Kira inserted himself into the investigation, then he’s likely to know that I had access to a notebook and have concluded that I tested the authenticity of its rules for myself. It’s what he would have done, after all._

_It’s true that my death will initially have left Kira thinking he’s won the war. Regardless, it remains in his interest to determine whether I am, in fact, unable to access heaven or hell as the notebook provides. If nothing else his own fate is at stake. Knowing that Shinigami exist also makes it likely he’ll consider the possibility of other supernatural entities such as ghosts. All of which leads me to believe that, at some point, Kira will be forced to question whether his attempt at removing me has been quite the success he believed. That motivation will only be strengthened if he regrets the loss of the challenge I posed. Perhaps it’s not a question of my finding Kira but providing Kira with the tools to find me._

Decision made, there’s nothing left but driving demand as he pins Ryuk in place with a stare and asks, “Well? Does Kira miss me?” 

Somewhere Matsuda stops typing, overcome by the sudden need to apologise and make instant coffee. In a shadowed bedroom Light wakes with a start, sheets sticking to skin that’s too hot. Misa whimpers beside him. He ignores her and sits on the edge of the bed, staring into the night as red numbers on the alarm clock flick into morning. He can hear a chain clinking in the distance and the carpet is rough against the soles of his feet.

Ryuk merely crunches the last of his apple core, wet tongue licking away a seed stuck to the corner of his mouth.

“Hard to say, he’s pretty busy you know. Things to do, names to write. It’s gotten kind of complicated.” 

“Complicated how?”

“It’d take too long to explain, you’ve been dead for quite a while now.” Ryuk throws him a sly grin, confidence restored. “Shame that you’re missing out on the fun but I guess that just leaves more for me. See you ‘round, Ryuzarki. Or not.”

Then Ryuk and his colours are gone.

“Well, that could have gone better.”

Still, his mind feels clearer and more settled than it has since he first woke up dead. Plans are already stretching half-formed wings inside him. Ryuk is clearly driven by a need for entertainment and demonstrates a tendency towards poor impulse control if presented with a situation sufficiently interesting to catch his attention. 

Such as a ghost, for example.

The comment about being in the dark hasn’t escaped his notice either. 

He turns and starts the long walk back to the hotel room, splashing through fast flowing gutters. It’s true that nicer accommodation could be found but his chair is comfortable, just the right size for crouching. If he’s to lay in reverse a cake crumb trail for Kira to follow then the risk of unsatisfactory cushions can’t be allowed to compromise his deductive skills. Besides, he’s grown used to his roommates.

Grey-scale pedestrians eddy and swirl as he moves between them, chewing on a thumb. If he concentrates he can almost taste torn skin and blood. 

He tries to ignore the small voice that continues to ask _“does he miss me…the way that I miss him?”_ One hundred and fourteen languages shuffle through the back of his mind, synapses searching for the answer he’d wanted the Shinigami to give. 

“Yes.”


	3. Chapter 3

I tear my attention from the sphere with a curse, chasing away tangled afterimages of black hair and need.

Nu is approaching. 

She has less kills than Zellogi, lacks the raw violence of Kinddara and is yet of the most terrible and beautiful amongst us. Her flesh is studded with eyes each a different colour than the one before. Gelus once told me that our stars fled to the human realm rather than stand before her, certain they’d appear tarnished and less. Soon after followed the moon, which refused to stay without the beat of its heart. 

He always was a romantic.

“Folloh.”

I acknowledge her presence with an incline of my head so slight it would go unnoticed by most. She isn’t, of course, and watches one hundred times over. I wait until the thread of silence between us threatens to snap.

“Nu, it’s been too long.”

Her eyes flicker in agitation at the mocking lilt to my voice, resting briefly on mine only to alight once again. “Long, short – what does that matter to us? Those creatures - ghosts - make you foolish and forget yourself.”

Ah, how similar she and Ryuk can be. Demigod children clawing at dead mice whilst rolling red die whose faces all number six. As neither would appreciate the comparison I allow the thought to drift away without comment. Not so her tone of censure, which is a challenge to be answered. 

“Forget? Not at all. Humans who die after using the death note have no greater need of years than you or I. Less in fact, since they don’t require the lives of others to sustain them.” 

The last isn’t entirely true, but it does her no harm to believe it. 

“As this discussion appears to upset you, however,” I gesture with one hand, uncaring, and turn my attention to the desolate horizon, “there’s no need for us to speak of ghosts any further.” 

She swells large with fear and hate, unwilling to concede that ghosts are the very reason she seeks me out. Unlike most Shinigami, Nu is very partial to them.

Her stated fondness for redemption is nothing more than sleight of hand, a house of cards threatening to collapse beneath the weight of dripping glue. I can only suppose that she maintains the façade for her own amusement. No, it’s suffering, not an impossible salvation, that keeps her boredom caged. How loudly it must be screaming for release today.

And what could be more pleasing to such a one as her than humans damned to an incomplete death? Ghost tales are popular for a reason and I hold the library key.

“You think yourself so clever, Folloh. For you to behave like this…”

“Like what?” I interrupt, turning towards her. “I’ll admit to finding myself at something of a loss. First I’m foolish and now too clever. Which is it? They’re not at all the same thing, you know. It’s really very simple - you didn’t wish to discuss ghosts and I agreed that we wouldn’t.”

“Perhaps you should write your thoughts down in advance as a reminder. Humans use it as a tool against senility and, from what I’ve observed, it’s quite effective. Something for you to consider, at any rate. Now please, take a moment to calm yourself and tell me. What is it you want?”

My eyes flash red as they fix on the largest of hers. 

“Or should I say need?”

Her response is almost immediate, eyes sparking with their own crimson light. 

Temper, temper.

Come then Nu, let us dance one last time. For I too am terrible and some days we all of us shine. 

The air crackles, strands of memory pulsing between us, alive in a way that we’re not. For a moment she seems about to pull away and I wrap around myself the lie that it’s not disappointment I feel.

Then it begins.

Numbers battle above our heads as we stand unmoving, chess pieces on a board stripped of black and white, worn away by the sand. This is the second death of cancelled lives. Fifty years stolen from a nun who killed her infant sister as a child take down ten from a man driven crazy with grief from the loss of his wife. Next to fall are thirty from a woman walking home with a container of milk left forgotten on stained concrete where she collapsed.

Whatever else may come to pass, I am Shinigami and that no one will forget. Least of all myself. 

When her lifespan is a mere thirty-five years Nu’s eyes flicker downwards with a frustrated grunt of defeat. “Enough.”

A wave of tiredness extinguishes my annoyance. Around and around we go, spinning in place with meaningless bets and petty, unwinnable battles. This farce has gone on long enough and it bores me. Let the forsaken have their cruelties and bedtime stories if it keeps the monster away.

“Yes Nu, you’re right. It’s enough.” 

I lower myself to the ground with a sigh, wings unfurled. Unpleasant truths don’t become lies by wishful thinking alone. There’s no love lost between us and yet, of all whom I could tell, no one else will hear so clearly what I can’t say. Later, perhaps, she’ll understand why I chose this story for her now. 

Or she won’t and I’m indeed a fool. 

“Settle yourself and I’ll tell you of a ghost called L Lawliet and a human called Light Yagami. Of a detective called L and Kira who killed him, the other half of himself who he couldn’t remember.”

:::: :::: ::::

**Death Note, Rule XVII:** If the god of death decides to use the Death Note to kill the assassin of an individual he favours, the individual’s life will be extended, but the god of death will die. 

**Extract from Folloh’s secret notebook:** The god of death who owns this notebook can return a ghost’s memories by writing the name of the ghost. If the name is written, however, the god of death will die. 

At the base of the Hakkoda Mountains lies an apple orchard. In spring the air will be heavy with the scent of blossom but for now only skeletal limbs covered in frost can be found. There’s no sound as he moves through its contorted stillness. 

_”L, do you know? Gods of death love apples.”_

It’s all he can remember.

He didn’t know where else to go. 

After Ryuk had disappeared into Tokyo’s neon wonderland he’d returned to the hotel room and waited. Each day he’d tried to construct strategies and plans, only to find his memories of Kira and the Shinigami fading. Now all that remains are the blurred, sepia tones of people in a photograph album whose identity no one can quite recall. 

The numbers told him that in another thirteen days even that would be lost.

He believed them.

Like a child entertaining itself with make-believe friends he’d shifted through percentages, additions and multiplications. Convinced himself there was a chance that one day he’d look up and recognise a face that could never have been anyone else. If he were patient and waited amongst the apples Kira would come.

Now he’s here and the truth is bitter on his tongue. 

No one is coming to find him. 

There are no elegant solutions to hold him close, decipher the meanings that twist and turn amongst sheets of sleepless dreams. Only pretence and lies. What had once been a source of delight leaves him doubled over, sobbing harsh breaths that don’t mist in the air.

He can remember the sun’s heat and sweat sliding over his collarbones, the thrum of racket strings vibrating through his wrist until it ached. There was a blister on his thumb. Yet the game itself has been erased, points won and lost slipping through holes in the net. 

“Please.”

And just like that, with a choked whisper, the world he’s been left with starts to unravel. Its tattered remains trail behind him through cold mud, catch and tear as he stumbles blindly, eyes cloaked in desperate denial. Hands that should have been locked together are slipping further apart as the music plays on and distant sirens scream in red and yellow mourning.

One step, then another.

Faster and faster and faster.

He’s running between frozen branches, bare feet striking the ground in echoes of silence. 

“Please.”

Bark scrapes as he falls in an ugly tangle of limbs, t-shirt pulling on white skin and bones that were always too close to the surface. Knees are pressed tight to a chest that’s suddenly heaving. Heart muscles contracting, breaking and tearing all over again as the snow starts to fall.

It sticks to his face and the eyelashes surrounding shadowed, dead eyes raised to a sky soaked in clouds. The only arms left to wrap around him are his own, a leaden weight anchored against hard ribs. He thinks of cruel laughter and fingers stroking the fine hairs on his arm, rain falling from eyes filled with broken joy.

“Please.”

There’s no one to ask but he does it anyway, pleads with the same flawed brilliance that made him the world’s greatest detective at only fifteen. A life built from logic, puzzles and custard cream games, sugared numbers spinning through the empty, green glow of monitors while Watari hummed tunelessly in the background. 

Lost and gone now, thrown away.

Everything that he was, all that he could have been sacrificed for a face and a name. The burnt, paper-doll heart of a boy forever out of reach despite the cameras and chains.

His tragedy is he’d do it again, wants all of it back.

Forever. Always. Again.

“Please.”

:::: :::: ::::

Up high above lidless eyes watch the small, human ghost lost and alone in a field of dirt-tainted snow. One amongst so many. Hot sands shift, an endless hourglass spinning around a sun long dead. Feathered hands bury into its warmth for the last time, trying to hold the sensation in place as protection against the darkness and breathtaking pain.

“Please.”

Then they let go.

Final entry in Folloh’s secret notebook: L Lawliet.


End file.
